Smile Again
by BitNotGood
Summary: The lives of James Bond and the Quartermaster were never going to be normal, working at MI6 had proven that repeatedly. Keeping track of time, missions, deaths and friends was impossible - but keeping track of smiles: that was much more manageable. (Craig as Bond and Whishaw as Q).
1. Smiling Again

**A/N: Welcome to the first story I've put on here. Any comments or critique would be brilliant and metaphorical cookies may be available. Hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: All known characters belong to Ian Fleming and the portrayals to the lovely people who bring us the films. All recognisable information belongs to original authors!**

"_Why then methinks 'tis time to smile again." Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare_

Seeing him now, after knowing the facts, didn't appease him at all. He had worked for Her Majesty's Secret Service a handful of years and seen more than a few lifetimes pass by (through to the very end in a regretful number of cases) but life was still surprising him. His emotions, and reactions, still surprised him: relief and instantly anger ate each other up.

'I hope everything's intact,' he quipped. He was ignored, rightfully so. He was being rude – _professional _ they called it – it was unavoidable. 'It was a success, congratulations.'

'I don't need that.' 007 replied finally looking the Quartermaster in the eyes.

'It's too much like luck.'

'And luck's never going to get you anywhere in the field, is it?'

He smiled slyly. 'On the contrary, I rely on it. Half of everything's luck.'

Q fought down a smile. He reminded himself he needed to be very angry. The mission had nearly failed – more times than usual – as one man had taken the plan into his own hands and moulded and squished it as he liked. One man who happened to be in front of him with annoyingly blue eyes. One man who he was supposed to be mad at. One man who brought one more smile to Q's face than he had had in weeks.

'The Coms broke off in Argentina.'

'You pulled it out.' He corrected the agent.

007 smirked and shook his head. 'Hope I don't see you too soon, Q. I'm planning on a holiday.'

'I thought you just got back from one.'

'I'm looking for something with less danger.'

He raised his eyebrows, as if saying _Really?_

'I think I've narrowed it down to Wales…' he smiled.

'Their financial stability as a Providence is terrifically dangerous, I would avoid it if I were you.'

'Wouldn't want anything to happen to any shares now would we,' 007 smiled again. He was smiling far too much – there had to be a law against it somewhere, or surely he could add one in, he had a few minutes to hack in to—

'Where would you recommend then?' The-agent-know-it-all-now-criminal smiled again, thoughtlessly.

The desperation to say something ghastly inappropriate for the workplace landed on his lips and suddenly the reasons against it (embarrassment, unemployment) seemed minimal. He opened his mouth and his phone rang from under the table—

—Reality sucked him up and threw him into a Tuesday morning in a rainy London where he hadn't left his desk since the night before and the only sound he could hear as the phone cut off unanswered was the static ridden breathing down the Coms that hadn't yet been taken off. The smiling agent slept on in Argentina and the Quartermaster – his Quartermaster – woke up to another day of waiting for him to come home, so he could be relieved, so he could be angry, so he could forgive him. And so he could smile again.

Sleep wasn't coming easily, and when it did it was doing a fine job of buggering off quite quickly; but he knew he should be enjoying the unlikely chance whilst he got it. Criminals, assassins, murderers, he could catch, but forty winks of sleep – or anything more than four really – was evading him expertly. It could have the Mafia out of a job.

'Q,' he murmured, into his earpiece, knowing there was no one around but not willing to believe it. Just in case.

'Q I know you're…' A muffled sigh a…_snore_ emitted from the Coms in his ear. James chuckled. The Quartermaster was asleep on the job instead of waiting avidly for the agent – his agent – to report back. Q _never _slept on the job he was meticulous and dedicated and…

It was only then that time caught up on him. It had been over two days since he had last slept and Q had been there on the other end waiting for him the whole while, through all of it, the whining and the egotistical boasts, the jokes and the anger, across half of South America he'd put up with him in his ear without sleep for two days. Of course he deserved a mere hour off.

It suddenly occurred to him that they should pay Q a whole lot more than they did.

For a moment he just listened to the sound of the other man sleep, the sounds pushing him nearer to the edge of dreams: he indulged in the sound whilst he could, knowing the improbability, the selfishness of his thoughts. The impossibility of reality.

Abruptly Q muttered a word that wasn't quite a whisper and James realised he must be asleep already, because awake, asleep or dreaming there were some things he would never hear _him_ say.

But all the same, he pretended he had heard correctly, that the man on the other end had really said that word and the agent drifted happily over the edge and into dreams: of being in England again, of having proper food, sleep, of seeing _him_, and of maybe – just maybe – smiling again.

**A/N: Thanks for reading!**


	2. Shadow of a Smile

Chapter 2: Shadow of a Smile

"_Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see a shadow." Helen Keller_

The London Underground was a beautiful, miracle, the floral smell of roses permeating every corner, fresh air and daisies; it was a gathering ground for some of the most gracious, kind, people you will ever meet.

Sometimes it's nicer to ignore the truth.

A woman stepped on his toes and glared at him—obviously it was his fault for being in the way. He apologised quietly regardless and shuffled slightly to the right whilst trying to balance his laptop case and a stack of papers.

Another commuter knocked into Q as the carriage lurched again, knocking the precarious pile of papers from his hand. He swore, as he quickly tried to pick them up. They were nothing important—otherwise he wouldn't have had them out (there was no such thing as being too cautious in his job)—but it would take a few hours of work to recreate them…

'Life goes on, it's only paperwork.'

He jumped a mile, well, as far as the confined space would allow him to.

He started, dumbstruck at the man in front of him. This was obviously payback for the snide comment he'd made during the Silva mission about rush hour. He must have remembered it all this time.

'Stop it, 00—' Q stopped and looked around quickly.

'James,' the other man offered. 'If you were looking for a name.'

'I know your name, you nitwit.' He glared up at him. 'What are you doing here?'

'Enjoying the view?' _James_ laughed. Q ignored him and kept gathering up the fallen papers, apologising to the teenagers and a man he banged into. The carriage took another turn as he lent over but then Bond had his hand on his shoulder and was holding him steady.

'Thank you.'

Bond handed him the rest of the papers, miraculously he'd gathered them all up sometime whilst Q had been differing on the floor.

'Thank you.'

'Stop thanking me,' Bond told him He stood up, pulling Q gently with him. Only now was Q truly able to see just how ridiculous the man in front of him looked in this situation. It wasn't how he was dressed, which was of course infuriatingly as impeccable as always in a Tom Ford suit with his cuffs perfectly aligned, whilst Q knew personally his cardigan was probably creased and bedraggled by now. For the umpteenth time he wondered whether tackling the tube at rush hour was really worth it. But no, Bond's suit was pressed, perfect and tailored untouched by London. It was merely the fact that he was standing there on the tube holding a bunch of papers on log rhythms a bit away from him as if they were rapid animals. James Bond, 007 of Her Majesty's Secret Service was on the Piccadilly Line headed to Covent Garden with MI6's youngest ever Quartermaster.

What would M say if he could see them now?

Recalling how James had nearly flinched earlier that day when Tanner had casually called their boss _M_ he decided it was definitely best not to bring it up right now. Malory was very good at his job, Bond just wasn't very accepting of someone else doing that particular job. Of course, from the outside you would never guess but…he didn't know how but Q could see it, and he knew it must hurt.

Wanting to avoid his line of thought he changed the topic back to the original unanswered question:

'Why're you here? You could just drive.'

'I didn't want to,' his face seemed to mould itself into stone and Q realised he wasn't going to get anything else out of him. 'I wanted to get the full underground experience, it was recommended to me by a friend.'

Q grinned.

The train started to slow down.

'I'm getting off here,' Q told him raising his eyebrows inquiringly, 'if you wondered.'

'What a coincidence,' his eyes twinkled, 'me too.' The train drew to a stop and the doors opened, he slipped past him and was the first out of their carriage door.

'Damn you, Bond,' Q murmured, smiling as he dashed after him with an 'excuse me' thrown over his shoulder as he pushed through. He wasn't overly polite. He just didn't see the point in making enemies of everyone he met.

He caught up with him at the lifts, his suit cutting quite an easy to follow figure in the crowd. The other suits, the business managers, lawyers and accountants faded into the background whilst he stood out…with the way he wore it. The utter blooming arrogance that was obvious even from across a busy station.

He slipped into the lift next to a discreetly laughing Bond. The doors closed practically the second he was through as if they had been waiting for him. There were too many people too close for them to continue a conversation or even make eye contact but Q could still practically hear Bond holding in the laughter beside him. He elbowed the agent as subtly—and as hard—as he could only for Bond to not even flinch. He conspicuously yawned and Q decided he would quite like to hit him—but was slightly worried he might just yawn that off too.

Once out of the station, and the lifts, Q dashed off in front, glad to see the…well sun was too optimistic a word, the grey banner of sky at least. Those things, the dreaded lifts, were claustrophobic at the best of time but with a licensed to kill agent on the edge of laughter next to you, he decided you really couldn't get out quick enough.

'We're you trying to get my attention back there, Q, I couldn't quite tell.'

'Oh, shut up.'

He chuckled and then stopped next to him, looking up at the sky.

'Why did you want to come to this part of London?'

James looked at him out of the corner of his eye and raised an eyebrow.

'It's not got anything you'd want.'

'Maybe you don't know what I want,' he said slowly. 'Maybe I want to feed the ducks or maybe,' the smile relit his face, coming back quickly. 'I just want to do a little sightseeing of my beloved city.'

'Sightseeing?'

'I'm patriotic.'

Q rolled his eyes and decided to accept it. He wondered why the man was being far more talkative than his usual laconic self. Perhaps he was enjoying the break between missions, and the success—despite constantly ignoring every warning Q had given him and going in blind and outnumbered at least twice anyway—of his last mission. The South American Government could sleep happy, and so could James Bond.

Or on the other hand he could use his free time to follow Q around which apparently he found more interesting.

Now there were less people around he found he was relaxing more, allowing himself to stop looking over his shoulder. He took the papers back off Bond, realising how long he had been holding them.

'Agent's make useful packhorses; they should really put that in your résumé.'

Bond laughed quietly at the remark.

'They could put it in between, espionage skills, ability to maim and…'

'Why don't we talk about your job, Q? We know all about mine.'

'My job is, an annoying amount of the time, working at making your job work. Actually the Q department is the only reason the double-ohs are effective.'

He took the bait: 'I doubt that. You wouldn't survive in the field, Q.'

'You wouldn't be able to switch my computer on, James.'

Both men froze and looked at each other recognising what he had said; Bond—James now, it would appear—was the first to smile but Q wasn't far behind.

Realising it was probably time he actually went and did the shopping he needed to—one of his interns' birthday was the next day and although it seemed childish, he would feel horrible not getting him anything. He knew James would have a million things he would prefer to do than join him shopping so decided it was time to go.

'Unlike you,' he said, 'my work doesn't stop when the world stops ending. I have things to do, highly confidential and important. I'll be sitting in my bedroom with my earl grey and laptop if you need me.'

'I'll be somewhere in London, if you need me, feeding ducks.'

He laughed, 'Enjoy it. I'll see you at work.'

'I'll see you when the world starts ending.'

'007,' Q nodded to him and started walking away, smiling.

'Q.'

A Shadow watched the men walk in opposite directions; the Shadow noticed the smiles on both their faces, the evident amusement. The Shadow was quite gleefully looking forward to wiping that look off of both their faces.

Looking once more over two sheets of paper, easily retrieved when the clumsy boy had dropped them, he memorised the unimportant data, just in case it ever became useful, then screwed it up and dropped it in the nearest bin.

Leaving London behind, and the men, the Shadow moved away. He had seen everything he needed to and gathered what he could. When they told him the man had no friends, no weakness, and nothing left to lose he had known they must be wrong. The man he had just seen clearly had hope; however little, it was there. And whilst there was hope, there was something to lose and there was something to take.

The Shadow left London's daylight and joined the blacks and greys of the streets, joining his own as he retreated, smiling, into the shadows.

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! You're awesome. Hope you enjoyed the chapter! **


	3. Unsatisfactory Smiles

**A/N: _Skyfall _spoilers, even more than before in this one, so if you haven't seen it yet, I would suggest waiting. Happy reading!**

* * *

Chapter Three: Unsatisfactory Smiles

"_The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It's one of the curses of London."—Ambrose Bierce_

'Keep on going, Johnson, we can't let them go.' Q muttered, sipping his Earl Grey idly. Johnson—the intern typing frantically in front of him—let out an undistinguishable sound that was something of a squeak as he started going faster, trying to replace the encryption behind himself, hiding his trail.

Another skirmish in cyber warfare had broken out that morning and Q had delegated, quite masterfully the task of dealing with it. Some Trojan had started working its way into MI6's system. Getting it out of the system had taken less than five minutes, chasing the signal back to the source was taking a little longer…

Q had taken one look at the problem and decided he hadn't had enough tea to be doing that sort of work yet, and anyway, Johnson had been looking for a way to prove himself for a while now. He was a forty something year old man, who was quite vocal about how the current Q was too young and likely to be inept because of this. He had dropped a few too many hints about how he would be better suited for the job. Q wasn't a spiteful person; he was just a little miffed. And he would deny under any sort of torture that he got any joy at all from watching Johnson sweat and panic as the signal dropped away. That would be wholly unprofessional.

'Message from M, Q.' Tanner walked in and handed him a file. 'He's asking for a progress report on the Poet case.'

'Thanks,' he smiled. Putting the mug down he flicked through the file, a summary of what they had so far and a typed note at the end requesting the update on tracking the pen used to write the poems.

Tanner frowned; looking at Johnson's panicky typing. 'What's Johnson doing?'

'Tracking the source of the Trojan we registered earlier.'

'I thought you already knew the source, you tracked it successfully this morning.'

'I did, didn't I?'

Tanner opened his mouth then closed it. He smiled slightly. 'Let him sweat for a bit then tell him soon,' he warned before walking away.

Q looked sheepish; he turned to let Johnson off when he remembered— 'Wait, Tanner! We don't have the poet's letters anymore.'

The poet case was a particularly perplexing one. A travel writer had been sending love letters, to his wife for six months whilst abroad only for a terror cell to claim they had had him captive the whole while. Looking back over the letters which the wife had brought in, a code was easily cracked, revealing everything that had happened to him—including vital information about the terror cell. Q-branch had been given two of the letters to see what they could get from the ink used to write it.

It was an interesting case and Q was quite anxious to finish it off, but overnight someone had taken the poems back before they could finish.

'No one's taken them as far as I'm aware...' Tanner said: his brow creasing.

Q shook his head sensing the other man's worry. 'Don't worry. We'll find them.'

'Are you…'

'I'm sure,' he smiled.

With a nod of thanks Tanner was gone, his worry sufficiently diffused and Q's amplified—if no one had taken them… 'Who had the poet's letters?' he asked the room as a whole. Some people looked up from their desks briefly to shrug or shake their heads but the vast majority didn't even move.

'I left them on your desk, sir.' A small voice, one of the younger women, a programmer said. 'Yesterday. I'm sorry, you were busy debriefing 007 and I didn't want to interrupt. I put them on top of some other papers on those…'

'Log rhythms,' he said quietly. She nodded. He swore.

The train, tripping over, the fallen papers… He must have misplaced them…

'Sir, I found their signal.' Johnson said proudly. 'It was easy really.'

'Good job,' he said, distracted. 'Let's see what they were doing then.' Forcing the missing papers to the back of his mind, he turned to the monitor nearest to him and inputted the signal he had found an hour ago. They weren't missing they would be at home, on the side somewhere, completely safe. Things were misplaced all the time. It would be fine. It would be completely fine. He knew that.

But his Earl Grey suddenly tasted a whole lot worse.

* * *

Time passed in London. The agents measured the passing days in their number of successful cases tos failures. The Q-branch measured it in how many attempts at hacking they caught, in the information they gathered, the firewalls they built and the codes they cracked. The double-oh-branch measured it in kills and near misses.

But for the first time there was something else for everyone to count; as they weaved in and out of missions and cases, arguments and jokes, the Quartermaster and 007 found themselves slipping slowly into an unexpected friendship.

In briefings, hellos, goodbyes, in shouting down the Coms and arguments in the halls, MI6 saw something it never had before as slowly, surprisingly and really rather shockingly they found that time could be measured in something different completely. Friendship was a rather unknown entity in the hallways of the Secret Service especially between the Q-branch and the double-ohs.

It wasn't necessarily a good thing. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It was just something that had happened and none of them had meant for it to. It was unintentional, unavoidable and something neither of them would give up for the world.

* * *

Bond arrived at headquarters at six in the morning, a late start, after half a run around London was interrupted by a message calling him urgently in.

'Bond.' M acknowledged with a nod. 'Sit down.'

M's office held your attention the second you walked in, from the red chair to the thick oak desk it demanded you stop and _notice_ it.

'Sir,' Bond nodded curtly. Q was seated already; he frowned at him, inquisitively. The Quartermaster caught his eye but said nothing. Tanner was standing alert behind him. Eve—Moneypenny, he reminded himself—closed the door behind him.

'I'm glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence.'

Whether he was late or not, he couldn't muster the emotion to care, the new M (he had been there months, but new was the nicest adjective Bond could think of) obviously wasn't annoyed. He was just making a point. It irked him. M—the old M—never would have done—

He wasn't going to think about that.

He tried to think of something else and came up with nothing but ducks.

_Really _just ducks.

'The report, sir.' Tanner said.

'Yes, of course,' M sighed. 'A family have been found dead in South Wales, a mother and two sons were shot at point blank range, it appears the father was made to watch and then taken through to the other room and shot in the left side below his heart causing heavy blood loss and he… was made to walk to the villages church and then wait there. He bled out within the hour. It would seem they remained to watch that he died then promptly left.'

A thousand unwanted images flew into Bond's head before he could stop them; it was too similar to what had happened before. Shot in the side, dying, the church, the blood, and the fall… It was too close and too soon, it was too like…

'M,' Bond muttered.

'Oh gosh.' Q's hand flew to his mouth. 'It's the same. Someone was recreating it.'

M was nodding and Tanner was asking him to clarify something but Bond wasn't listening anymore, he was back there, back at Skyfall. Falling all over again. Falling, down, down, down…_M_.

'There's more,' Gareth Mallory's face turned stony and his small eyes focused on Bond. He narrowed them, thinly.

'After the report from Skyfall we discovered one that one of Silva's "soldiers" had survived. We chose it was for the benefit of all to not pursue him directly. Naturally we kept surveillance on him and the nearest agents on standby but the surveillance for the evening of the murderers shows nothing, turns out it was on a two hour delay which went by unnoticed,' the head of MI6 looked sideways at Q briefly. Bond could almost feel him squirming and instantly started to get annoyed. It wasn't fair for M to blame Q for this; there was nothing he could have done, Q was one of the few honestly _kind_ and _nice _people working here and for someone with as many secret agendas as Malory to question him was unacceptable.

'Either way,' Mallory continued, 'the intruders slipped by us and killed him and his family, recreating…well. Yes. I'm sure you know.' He had the decency to look away. 'Whoever it was must have known exactly where our cameras were, how far away our agents were. They seem to have had inside knowledge.' Once again he looked to Bond, then to Q, then slowly back to Bond again, the accusation in his eyes growing. A silence fell and even Tanner didn't talk or question him this time.

Bond looked up at him slowly and forced a smirk. 'Are you expecting me to talk?'

'I just want to know the truth. You have more than enough reason to want him dead. There are only a select few who know exactly how the mission ended; to recreate it seems very deliberate. 007. You had access to all the information—'

'How would I know the security details?' he asked, trying not to snap, keeping his expression as calm as possible.

M didn't even look away this time. 'I think that's clear.'

'No.' Bond said. 'No.' He couldn't be implying what he thought he was. Bond looked to Q and shook his head. 'Don't bring him into this.'

'You have reason to want revenge, 007 but if you did this we need to know now.'

'Don't worry, I didn't,' he smiled shortly.

M sighed heavily. 'I wish I could believe you.'

Q looked worriedly from Tanner to M, looking for a joke in either of their eyes.

'Take the rest of the day off, you are under a great deal of pressure lately and we want you on top form. If you remember anything else you would like to tell us then please,' he inclined his head, 'we would be grateful to know.'

Bond stood up instantly and pushed away from his chair. He was halfway to the door, walking firmly, before he heard M add: 'You as well, Q.'

He spun around and saw the shock, resignation and wide eyed expression of his friend who he had gotten into this. It was suddenly like he was a teenager, called into the headmaster's office after tricking a friend into joining him on a prank. Q was completely innocent in this. He had done _nothing_, nothing but his job, and helping Bond, helping _James_.

Meeting Q's eyes he tried to convey everything he felt, how sorry he was, how this was entirely his fault, how he wished he could take it away. Q's work was his life, his ambition everything he had worked for, it was only a little time off but it wouldn't seem that way to him. _I'm sorry_, he wanted to say but he couldn't. Not only because M and Tanner were there but because he didn't do that sort of thing.

James Bond just didn't say sorry.

* * *

Q got home before lunch. He threw his laptop—well, placed it carefully—on the sofa and flicked the kettle on. Already it was grey outside and shadows were gathering and skirting around the edges of his window.

When Tanner had called him into M's office he knew it was going to be bad, maybe annoyed at him handing in the incomplete report on the poet's handwriting analysis after having looked for the poems to no avail (which reminded him _he really needed to find them_). He could see M's point, he knew the lapse in security at the house had been his fault, he hadn't personally monitored it but as head of Q-branch he should have been. Of course he should have. He hadn't done his job well enough; he needed to do better, for everyone else, for all of Q-branch, for all of England. He was just sorry the blame had simultaneously fallen on James as well.

Think of the devil and the devil shall appear—as if summoned by his thoughts his front door opened (his locked and bolted front door he later realised) and one of Her Majesty's Secret Service's top agents barged through and disrupted his tea making.

'I didn't do it,' he said, his voice low and firm.

'James,' startled Q started, 'I know, I—'

'I didn't,' James took a step towards him, his blue eyes brilliant even in the weak electric lights of his kitchen. 'I didn't kill him. I'd have liked to…'

A small laugh burst from Q, coming out sounding more worried than amused.

An equally small smile spread slowly across James' face. 'But I didn't do it.'

'I know,' he replied softly. He walked over to the older man and lent against the counter next to him. 'I know.'

'I wouldn't have done that.'

'It seems like a perfect imitation,' Q remarked slowly, checking the other man's reaction, not wanting to push him too far, knowing the topic was still raw. 'I see how it could appear an inside job. If not one of us who had read the report'—as Q had personally read it, the only one in his division, and it had disturbed and distressed him—'then maybe…'

James raised an eyebrow. 'Maybe what?'

'The only other person who was there was Silva. Who is dead but…They never did find his body and—'

'_What_?' James hissed.

Q looked surprised. 'I assumed you knew. They found a body of course but there was discrepancy I mean, it looked like him, but none of the tests checked out, the DNA results came back negative with our records. He could, in theory be still out there.'

'With a knife in his back.' James commented darkly then frowned slightly. 'What was it he said, _life clung to him like a disease_.'

'I'm sure it was just a mistake, James. He won't be alive.' _Can't be_.

'If he is he won't be for long,' he smiled. It wasn't one of his smiles for Q though. There was none of the happiness or warmth in it: it was cold and promised nothing good would come of it. He didn't ever want to see him smile like that again.

Tomorrow James might end the world, the smile seemed to hint and suggest all in one malevolent moment. Tomorrow they both might lose their jobs and face another round of accusations. Tomorrow someone else might die and Q and 007 might not be able to stop them. But at least they had tonight to sit there. At least they had this moment to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. At least they had each other.

* * *

Gareth Mallory sat in his office and watched the words appear in one text on the black of his computer screen:

**I STILL WORK IN THE SHADOWS**

**COME AND GET ME**


	4. Smile Through

**A/N: Skyfall spoilers again, sorry! Thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and followed, you're all brilliant.**

* * *

Chapter Four: Smile Through

"_Evil is unspectacular and always human," W. H. Auden_

'Bond will be headed to Wales today, Tanner. Please inform him and give him all the relative briefings, I have a meeting with the PM until noon.'

Tanner nodded, but looked cautiously to the head of Her Majesty's Secret Service, feeling the need to ask despite not wanting to. 'Bond has been cleared for duty again, sir?'

'It was always only a one day suspension he's back to work now. However, we will be taking precautions,' M handed Tanner the file. 'This case is linked in part to the issue over which he was suspended.'

He schooled his face to hide the shock as he leafed through the notes. 'This is the Wales case, we tracked down the people who did the execution, the killings, the ones who replicated M—the previous M's death.' He looked up to meet M's steely eyes. 'You're putting Bond on the case?'

'It seemed best to keep it close to home,' M half-smiled. 'Simultaneously, it also offers 007 and Q a chance to…fully prove themselves. His task is to infiltrate their operation and get them out alive for questioning. How many do you think he will be bringing back alive?' He started walking out of the room and Tanner looked after him, unsure whether to answer and unsure what to say. Uncertainty was not an admirable trait in this line of work but by the time he had made his mind up to protest, M had turned back to him shrugged and said lightly: 'Just a thought.'

* * *

Q watched as the world burnt down around him. The barn's roof groaned under the weight of flames, clearly starting to give up on holding the upper floors. The whole place was wooden and dry and perfect kindling for the fire that was consuming it, minutes, seconds after being set alight by one megalomaniac lunatic—criminal, he reminded himself, was the more commonly used term. The roof started to protest, whinnying and whining for someone to put out the blaze as it stretched and consumed everything in sight. He could almost feel the heat. Almost. He reminded himself to focus. He reminded himself that however high definition the CCTV on the screens may be he wasn't actually there. He reminded himself that Bond was.

'Which way, Q?' his voice came through, gruff from the smoke.

'Left,' Q answered. 'Yes, there. Now carry on down here, on the right, under the beams there's an open door, at least it should be open; you need to carry on straight through. Quick—'

'_I can't_.' The agent hissed. 'There's a bloody great burning stable in the way if you hadn't noticed.'

Q took a deep breath. 'Just get through when you ca—'

The roof gave one last dissatisfied groan and gave way.

Fire consumed the barn and it was devoured in seconds. Instantly, Q-branch fell silent: fire roared and screeched down the Coms as a barn in North-West Wales fell to the floor.

Q-branch waited and the Quartermaster held his breath.

'I _hate _Wales,' James' rough, torn apart but still brilliantly _there_ and alive voice sounded through the room as he stumbled away. Some people let out gasps and laughed, some cheered, but the Quartermaster didn't make a sound. He finally asked in a controlled voice:

'Is everything in working order, 007?'

'Everything is fine, Q'—he could almost hear the eye roll in the other man's voice—'All equipment was rescued, well except the small black box but I never did quite understand that one...'

He wanted to tell James that hadn't been what he meant but as M walked through the glass door and approached his desk he was reminded of the decorum of Britain and the values he was meant to be upholding here in his office. He was a professional, and 007 was an agent, they worked together, that was all. The agent was 007, not James.

'He broke the microchip decrypting device?' Johnson hissed looking around to see if anyone else shared his indignation. 'Developing that cost nearly half a mil—'

'Shush,' Q muttered. Johnson looked outraged but two of his colleagues turned and glared at him as well, sufficiently silencing him. Q ignored him, twirled his pen nervously in his hand and smiled tightly at M. '007's mission was a partial success it appears, sir, he retrieved their hard drive and files but the actual employees he seems to have…'

'Killed?' M suggested.

Q flinched. 'Well, yes, sir. He was unfortunately… unable to keep them alive.'

'Was he unable to keep _all_ of them alive?'

'Every last one,' this time the reply came from the computer; Bond's voice was still harsher than usual. It was from the smoke, Q told himself, but he knew his own lies when he heard them, he knew Bond would be affected by this case and that it wasn't just the smoke.

To face the people who would kill someone like that…like _she_ had died…

It would hurt.

Mallory nodded perhaps forgetting that Bond could not see or merely completing the action for his own sake to order his thoughts. 'Report back to headquarters as soon as possible to be debriefed, 007. After this development we will have to take a new view on the case.'

Q kept his eyes trained on the computer screen—as they were for the majority of his working day—but felt as M watched him. As if nothing was wrong, he started to type again, rewriting a security algorithm, breaking into a prison cell in Asia, monitoring stocks in America, he honestly didn't know. He was too busy focusing on doing something to notice what it was he was doing. He could be blowing up the Houses of Parliament and wouldn't have a clue. Whatever happened he just had to not look at M.

Eventually he heard the sound of expensive shoes on inexpensive floor and knew he was gone.

Tanner cleared his throat, alerting him to his presence. 'Bond will be returning in a few hours. M will want to see you both in here when he does.'

Q nodded absent-mindedly. 'Thank you, Bill,' he smiled. It wasn't Bill Tanner's fault Q was mad enough at the head of MI6 to scream if he so much as looked at him for too long.

The calculating glances and suspicious looks had been following Q around since he returned to work after that one afternoon off: eighteen hours out of the office and he seemed to have stepped into the twilight zone. Even Johnson talked back to him less; it was as if this case with Silva's old men's murder, the recreation of Skyfall and the looming itch at the back of everyone's mind that Silva's DNA still didn't match the body was sending everyone mad. But then again, if they worked for MI6, it was highly likely they were mad already.

Q could deal with the odd looks and the fugitive murmurs directed at him, but what he could not and would not accept was when they started to do the same to Bond. Every time M made fruitless comments like that, every time he disregarded something Bond had done, every time he paused when someone mentioned Bond, as if he had done something wrong, Q—an admittedly easily annoyed though non-violent person—wanted quiet desperately to scream and rage at his boss.

But of course, in reality, Q would never do something like that.

Because, Q wasn't annoyed or mad and it didn't bother him at all. M could look challengingly at 007 and him all he liked, and accuse them of anything. Why on earth would it bother the Quartermaster? Why on earth should it bother the Quartermaster?

He was a professional.

Professional or not though, there were days when he thought it would be worth the sacrifice to pour his Earl Grey down M's navy three piece suit.

* * *

'Sorry about the microchip thing, didn't realise it was anything useful.'

'Because so often I give you equipment that is completely devoid of use?'

'I said sorry, Q.'

'I never said you weren't sorry, 007. Do be more careful next time though.'

'I'll try.'

'Did you enjoy your holiday to Wales?'

'You were right, it was dire.'

'Yes. I mean, err…aye,'

'Was that your attempt at a Welsh accent or Scottish?'

'Sorry, I forgot you're Scottish, I should try a Scottish one…'

'Please don't,' James Bond laughed.

'Fine,' Q grinned. 'Afraid mine will be better than yours? You're not very good at being Scottish, are you? I would wager you have never even had haggis.'

'I'm not going to even dignify that with an answer.'

M cleared his throat. Both men turned quickly to see him standing silhouetted in the doorway. Bond wondered idly how long he had been there.

'If you are quite finished…'

'Of course,' Q rushed to say, tripping over a stray laptop case as he walked around his desk, barely managing to stay on his feet. He thought down the heat in his cheeks. 'Sir, we're ready for the report. How can we help you?'

'What's the new information?' Bond asked, turning to M and inclining his head respectfully. He had been back all of ten minutes and was endeavouring to not start any arguments—yet.

M's lip twitched but he held back a smile. 'There was a gas explosion this morning. I need you,' he turned to Q, 'to monitor it, and you, 007, to check it out for foul play. The address is a school on the other side of London it blew up in the early hours of this morning…'

Bond frowned.

'A teenage boy was killed and his teacher. The student had been getting tuition before class and when it went up they were the only two inside.'

Q who had started typing the second the words left M's mouth had the news reports up from five different broadsheets, a floor plan of the school, eyewitness accounts, MI6's own report and a picture of the teenage boy who had died instantly with the explosion, next to a name and address.

Bond's frown deepened whilst M smiled happily at Q's efficiency. Bond was in awe as always of Q but found this really wasn't the time to reveal in it.

'I don't understand why I am on this case, sir,' he said slowly, looking carefully at one of the most powerful men in England. 'This is 008's area.'

M raised his eyebrows. 'Yes, it is. And that—' he pointed idly to the picture of the acne covered unfortunate brown haired boy, '—is 008's nephew.'

'What?' Q asked, his eyes flicking from one screen to another. 'Oh no…it can't…' he typed something and 008's file appeared, under family relations he found the boy confirming it…

'It was deliberate.' Bond stated.

'It would seem so.' M looked down. 'Also, 008 is the only other double-oh-agent to have read the report on the Silva mission and the events at Skyfall, Scotland. She has been taken off her current mission and another agent assigned to it, we are keeping her safe. It seems someone is sending her a message.'

'Or sending us a message,' Q mused. 'The explosives used were…' he looked quickly to Bond worriedly. 'It seems it was the same as the way 007 blew up Skyfall. It's possibly too early to be definite but, it appears someone has recreated the explosion.'

'Just like with M,' Mallory said, cooly.

_No_. Bond's head was screaming but he remained frozen. It had happened again; whoever was doing this was sneaking around them, weaving in and out, mocking them, always one step ahead… and then had the audacity to not hurt them but to _kill_ those nearest to them; it was evil. 008 had barely even been related to the case, he realised with a jolt, and her nephew had paid the price for whatever their sins apparently were this time. He was at the centre of this, they would undoubtedly come after him and any friends or anyone he cared about. Having no family had never been so useful. However, maybe this time he would still have a reason to worry…Reluctantly he turned and watched the frazzled nest of a mess that called itself Q's hair as he lent close to the computer and typed frantically, checking who-knows-what. But…_no_. Bond forced the thought from his head. They would not go after Q, they weren't even friends just…they were…no. They were just Bond and Q. It couldn't happen. It wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let it.

Suddenly the room was unnaturally quiet.

Q had stopped typing.

They turned to the screen, in sync and Bond heard M's sharp intake of breath informing him that he was not the only one seeing this. A blazing red encapsulated every monitor in the room's screen and in white lettering, words appeared instantly as if carved into the blood red backdrop.

**STOP LOOKING FOR ME AND COME AND FIND ME**

**YOU KNOW WHERE I AM**

The letters slowly faded away and no one dared to move. Suddenly a second message appeared, as quickly as the first had left, and as the blood red swallowed these words too Bond felt his own blood leave his face and still, freezing inside him. Because suddenly it all made a little too much sense.

**READY FOR ROUND TWO, RAT?**

* * *

That night when Q got home he was scared and definitely not going to admit it to anyone.

'I'm fine,' he sighed down the phone for the umpteenth time. 'Don't worry.'

'You shouldn't be alone,' James muttered, annoyed on the other end.

'Yes I should I'm a grown man and I can look after myself, thank you Mr-Save-The-World.'

'You're practically a teenager still.' He could hear the smile in his voice.

'Shut up or I'm hanging up.'

'You still have a curfew—' Deciding it was best show the agent he would not make idle threats he followed through and reluctantly hung up. He put the phone down carefully torn between annoyance that Bond might call back and a desperate urge to hear his friend's voice again in his incredibly empty apartment.

He walked through to the sitting room, considering doing some more work before calling it a night, knowing he would regret not doing it otherwise in the morning, when abruptly one of the shadows surrounding the dark room seemed to move more violently than the others. He fumbled for the light switch but couldn't find it.

Opening his mouth to yell whilst reaching back for his phone, the shadow ran the length of the room and became a figure as it moved towards him out of the darkness of his apartment that apparently was not as empty as he had imagined. Before he could see the shadow—the person—it was upon him and his head was being slammed against the wall. Dizzy and delirious he started to fade out, and knew that this was quite clearly his own stupid fault…

'Sweet dreams,' a hoarse, coarse biting voice mocked him as Q was dragged unceremoniously away from reality and into the land of shadows and the world of dreams. Quickly consciousness left the equation and before he could fight or fathom a plan he let go of reality and fell to the floor.


	5. Losing Smiles

Chapter Five: Losing Smiles

"_Hope is a waking dream," Aristotle_

The best part about the morning is forgetting yesterday: you get to start again, a new slate, a new day, a new promise comes in with the sunrise and you can pretend yesterday was just as wonderful as this day is certainly going to be.

But then reality catches up and drowns you in every flaw of the day before and suddenly you're left desperate to not get up, scared of what the day might bring. Or what it might not.

James Bond tries to not remember yesterdays; it's never helped before and he doubts it's going to start to help anytime soon. But lately yesterday has been hanging on; memories have been plaguing him and running amuck with his mind every morning as if the day before is all he can think about. Lately the first thing he remembers today is exactly the same thing as the last thing he thought of the night before. Because it's all he ever thinks about anymore.

Eighty-four hours ago he was told he was missing. And since then there's only been one thought digging its way into his mind every yesterday, every today and every tomorrow.

Q.

* * *

The best part about the morning is remembering yesterday, that moment when both days exist simultaneously in your head and you can recall the brilliance of yesterday and dream dreams of what today might hold as well. Two perfectly flawed days lain out before you and for that spilt second you get both of them to dream with however you like.

Q's been doing a lot of dreaming lately, a lot more than usual. There's little else to do when tied down, half blind in a room that has yet to learn the pleasures of heating.

Lately his yesterdays and todays have stopped blurring together: every second is different and memorable separately in how brilliantly horrible it is: there's a clinical sting to every minute and his thoughts never blur, he doesn't lose consciousness: he remembers every hour as vividly as the last and every day is another sharp reminder of what he never has time to forget.

His life isn't his own anymore.

Nothing is his.

He no longer exists: he's been dragged into the shadows and is reminded of it every second. It's ironic how clear everything is here, how clear his loss is in between the cold floor and the emotionless stones in the Worst Place in The World (he had to name it something and his mental capacities were lacking inspiration beyond the obvious when he was thrown in here).

Q is no longer a person, free to move around the world, they've taken that from him, along with his life, his hope and—he's beginning to worry—his sanity. His dreams are all his has left now. And so they can go to hell for all he cares, he's going to dream about whatever he likes.

And if that happens to be a certain blonde haired agent then whose business is that?

* * *

Eight-four hours previous

'Arg…'—An incoherent moan. 'No.'—A protest against the agonising sound. 'Shut up.'—Fighting back. '_Shut up_.' James reached out and grabbed the offensive object and flung it across the room and into the opposite wall with enough force to silence it effectively.

The alarm clock crumbled to the ground.

Finally relieved of the sound, he slowly got out of bed, going through the motions. He considered and dismissed the idea of breakfast in the same thought as the events of the day before churned his stomach. He felt sick, nauseous and disgusting…the messages that had appeared on the screens ran through his head and he practically jogged to the shower, needing to get rid of the itching feeling of _that man_ all over his mind. He closed his eyes and tried unsuccessfully not to think about Raoul Silva.

The water ran cold around him.

Slowly, he turned off the tap. He would be late for work if he didn't start to move. He remembered the alarm clock going off incessantly and wondered passively if maybe he was late for work already.

Finally he dragged himself grudgingly back to his room, and saw the scattered remains of what had been his alarm clock. Lying pitifully in pieces it was a sad image. It hadn't really done anything to him and he should have just woken up on time instead of throwing it…James tried very hard not to feel sorry for the inanimate object—he clearly had to stop spending so much time with Q, he was going soft and turning nice.

Q.

Suddenly it took a lot less time for him to get ready. He was dressed and out of the door before he even noticed.

_Q_. Last night, he had left him alone to go back to his apartment when it was clear from the poor man's face he was terrified out of his mind. James, in another very un-Bond thing, needed to go and check that Q was alright; it had felt wrong leaving him alone.

By the time he got into work that morning—passing across London as if it were a playground he was choosing to ignore: not stopping to feed the ducks or smell the air—he was late and M, Tanner, the head of security and another double-oh agent were waiting for him in an oddly solemn line inside the main office. _Damn them_, he was only a bit late, it wasn't deliberate or even drastic, he could easily catch up. There was no need for them to have brought out all the King's horses just to reprimand him—

His thoughts chocked at that point because, _no_, there was no need for them all to be there just because he was a little tardy, no need at all. So why were they? And also, inspecting their faces, not one of them looked angry, annoyed or at all put out; in fact they all looked terrifically, terribly, terrifyingly _sad_.

M's hands were sweaty and clasped together; the man wasn't fidgeting but obviously only a step or two away from it.

Tanner was holding a frown, enough tension to call an army to attention, enough sadness to drown a city, enough bad news to end a life and a piece of paper.

Tanner spoke first, he started talking to Bond in a low, cautiously sombre voice like that you might use on a panicking child. His voice was barely above a whisper as he delivered the news with all the elocution that Her Majesty's Secret Service could hope for but still Bond heard every word. He merely wished he hadn't.

Not one member of the excessive welcoming committee of bearers of bad news moved or said a word. Bond liked solid facts and solid objects and targets, bullets bangs and clean cut deaths—he did not like exaggerating or dreaming but in that moment his whole world was crushing itself down to nothing. He wanted desperately to be the sort of person who dreamed impossible dreams; he wanted to be able to convince himself that the truth was not true.

Because Silva, the cold hearted murderer of the previous M—_his M_—could not truly have taken and kidnapped their Q, his Q. If he had, then Bond would not know what to do, and Bond always knew what to do. It therefore, was quite simply impossible.

No one knew what to say about MI6 losing its youngest ever—_best _ever —Quartermaster. No one knew what to say, about an innocent man's life being ruined by a man who was already declared dead. No one knew what to say when James Bond said nothing but took the paper and walked away, not out of the building or towards M's office but towards Q-branch.

Because sometimes in life, words fall short and you can do is stay silent, and dream.

* * *

'Wake up, little baby, don't say a word, papa's going to make sure, you're not heard …'

The same coarse voice that had lulled him into unconsciousness pulled him back up out of it into the freezing cold room and the ice of reality.

'I'm so glad you're joining us, Q.' The voice licked around the words like a death threat and Q opened his eyes only to find the dead hazel brown eyes of one of MI6's best ex-employees Tiago Rodriguez, the death of countless people, the destroyer of MI6's previous headquarters and the murderer of M.

'Did you miss me?' the mad man smiled through his few remaining teeth.

'Unbearably,' Q deadpanned.

Silva started to laugh, the gruff, ill sound that sounded like it might be chocking him—Q, never usually one to wish bad things onto others, couldn't help but hope it really was chocking him, and hurting _a lot_.

'I can see we're going to have fun,' the dead mad man smiled on, standing up straight and brushing down his off-white suit. He looked back at the curled up Q on the stone floor of the remains of the once majestic house. 'Don't lose that smile, it'll all be alright.' He grinned, with obvious pain as his deformed face lifted and the skin stretched. He laughed again: 'I don't know why I don't take hostages more often.'

When Silva left the room, Q let himself sag back down to the floor, curl in on himself and close his eyes. He wanted desperately to be strong, to figure a way out of this. Out of the metal that held his wrists tight together, chained to the floor. Out of the images in his head of the report from Skyfall and what he knew could, would, happen to him. Out of fear that he was never going to get out of this place and he would live the rest of his days—hours, minute?—in the ruins of a burnt out house in Scotland. He wanted frantically to smile and to be strong, like Bond would in his place, like James would want him to, but as the fear took over and darkness seeped into the stone room: he knew he was losing his smile.

* * *

Bond was sitting at Q's desk and most certainly not missing him. Only of course he was. And of course everyone could see it. Except for Bond. He was quite enjoying lying to himself actually, it was easier—liberating.

The report had come in; he had read it in full eleven times. Silva had already been in Q's house when he got there—oh, sorry, yes Silva _is_ alive. Seems some people can survive being stabbed in the back and excessive blood less, we will endeavour not to make a mistake like this again, we are, of course, _profusely _sorry—he had been waiting for Q when he got in. Silva had been in there, listening whilst Q assured Bond on the other end of the phone that he was fine and didn't need him to come around…

The irony of it was disgusting.

A lamp had been broken and two pillows knocked off the couch. That was it. That was the extent of the damage. Q had not had time to put up a fight or anyway to stop him, Silva had simply run in and pulled him from his life not giving him a second to fight back or plead his case, it was so single sided, so unequal and _unfair._ Silva had knocked Q unconscious before taking him from his house and his life—there was blood on the wall where his head had cracked back.

Fury suddenly filled Bond like never before. He had killed people before, and wanted to kill people before but he had never felt that he _needed_ to kill anyone quite as much as in that moment. He wanted to grab Silva and destroy him a thousand times over just to start paying him back for all the pain he had caused, to M, to _Q_…

Bond grabbed his gun and walked purposefully from Q's office having no idea and knowing precisely where he was going simultaneously. He was going wherever Silva was, wherever Q was.

Looking on the bright side of Silva's second resurrection (him coming back to life once had been inconvenient enough, a second time was beyond rude) there was one positive to all of this at least.

He would get to kill the rat twice.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the support! You're all wonderful. Next update will be along sooner this time.**


	6. Or Not to Smile

**A/N: **Sorry, perhaps a little darker than usual in places. Warnings for torture.

* * *

Chapter Six: Or Not to Smile

"_The earth turns, the sun burns, but I die, without you." Without You, Rent_

'Mind the rats; I think they're hungrier than us.'

'Huh?' mumbled Q, hearing a voice above him different to the usual taunting grit. It couldn't have more than two days or so since his arrival but he could barely remember anything before now—he knew he was being dramatic but felt that the situation allowed him a little hyperbole.

They were at Skyfall. He knew that much. He had never been to the place before or dared to imagine it; it meant too much for James for him to put his own stamp on it. James grew up, _lived_ here for his childhood; of course Q couldn't come in here and claim it as his own. But now he was here. And James wasn't. And he was bleeding over the broken, burnt floor of his friend's house without his permission—he was sure there must be some sort of rule against that. He had had friends before—don't look at him like that, he could have friends if he wanted—but in the minimal social interactions he had been in he had never learnt the protocol for when you were locked to the floor of your friend's house by his nemesis and stained it red. Probably none, as most people didn't have nemeses. Or friends like James bond.

Q knew he was fortunate to have been friends with James even for the short time he was. It was certainly _different_. You didn't meet people like the double-ohs every day, and even then, Bond's breed was hard to come by since the Golden Age of espionage had died out with the Cold War years. Quickly Q realised his thought's direction (and the ghastly past tense). He tried to snap out of it: he need to. He was the Quartermaster for Her Majesty's Secret Service, he was hired because some things that are impossible still need to be done by people, and some elusive "They" had decided that he was the person who was able to make impossible things possible. So he became Q for Them. And he was not going to start thinking things were impossible now. He was _not_ going to start thinking he would never see James again. He was not going to start giving up now.

'You alright down there? Are you with us?' a whisper of a voice said calmly. Every syllable straight. Quiet but controlled and the antithesis to the loud ecstatic grate of Silva. It was a voice he often only heard down the advanced technology of MI6's communication headsets and had not heard, or expected to hear, in a while. Not Bond. But someone of the same job.

Q wanted to groan. His job was clearly showing when all the double-ohs started to sound the same.

'Glad you're alive. You're always good company, sir, even when semi-unconscious.''

'I am perfectly conscious thank you, 008.'

She shrugged. 'Of course, Q.'

'I am.'

'I never said you weren't.'

Annoyed, he attempted to sit up to offer her a disparaging glare but found the metal around his wrists pulling him back down to the ground.

'You should probably stay there,' she observed.

He rolled his eyes—surprised to find he still had his glasses on, something he was sure they would have taken by now. 'Thank you for your genius.'

'Always prepared to help.' Her voice reflected the tempo and tone of the room, the utter darkness that seemed to gobble them up whilst still offering them enough light to be fearful of the shadows.

_I'm sorry you're stuck here, _he wanted to say, _I'm sorry this has happened to you_. _I'm sorry you've been dragged in so deep after dipping your toes in so shallow. I'm sorry we didn't warn you (our waters are treacherous)_.

'It was my choice to come after them. You don't need to be sorry.' She was smiling almost sympathetically.

Q groaned. 'Please tell me that monologue stayed in my head?'

'Would I lie to my favourite Quartermaster?'

'Yes.'

'Then it stayed in your head. I didn't hear a thing.'

He wondered idly if he closed his eyes tight enough he could sink into the floor.

'I'm sorry about your nephew,' he whispered instead.

'Why are you sorry? Unless you're leading a criminal second life you didn't light the fuse.'

'I didn't prevent it either.' He turned to her but couldn't make out much of her face: a frame of messy hair, a higher vantage point—so she wasn't chained up like him at least. 'It's my job.'

'No, it wasn't.'

'Protecting all assets and their best interests is part of the job description.'

'It happened in England.'

He failed to see her point and started to worry about head injuries. 'Have you been in here a long time 008?'

The backlit shadow of trained-killer's head huffed. 'It was Five's jurisdiction, Q. MI6 is foreign affairs, wouldn't want to step on any diplomatic toes—'

'We would have,' he said quickly. 'We—_I_—did not know until after the fact otherwise, jurisdiction or not'—he lent in as much as he could with the horrible metal biting into his wrists—'I would have stopped it.'

'Aha, such a shame our little clever boy wasn't looking at the right screen on time. Tut, tut, Quartermaster…' the voice saturated the air and clung like sweat '_bad show_.'

008 stopped smiling and turned away from Q towards Raoul Silva.

Behind Silva, three hulking masses moved forwards. It was night Q registered seeing only the moonlight through the bare carcasses of ceiling and walls (and what had likely used to be windows). Seeing a report reading _building_ _decimated _and seeing the building literally decimated around him was a different matter. Silva may have been an agent once but he clearly wasn't afraid to hire others to do the heavy lifting.

Well, considering it, neither 008 nor he were _heavy _as such.

Once again he clamped down on his train of thought and devoted his—in his modest opinion—relatively impressive intellect to different lines of thought.

Q's lodgings for the past few days have not exactly been five-star quality. The clenching in his unused limps has passed beyond simple pins and needles around the twenty hour mark. There had been little movement possible and the only entertainment before the double oh's appearance being Silva's scathing visits and the looming threat of his Shadow men, Q had had a lot of time on his hands. So he knew his surroundings quite well. There was only a small part of roof left in this room—possibly the dining room recalling once glimpsed floor plans—and the elements were welcomed in. The first night's rain had asserted that fact for him. A small part of his mind absently considered the risk of pneumonia but didn't like the figures it found so pushed them into a closet. Either way, the room was very open and the moon burst in and around Q's guests. (If you were going to lock an Englishman to the floor for two days he was very well going to start classing it as his room and you his guests regardless of who was wearing the handcuffs).

Silva and his goons were clearly on view, and, as she turned her head, so was 008. There was blood dripping down from her hairline, dark and light, dried and fresh…. Her hands were secured behind her back to the iron rails of the fireplace—weathered by the explosion but still mostly intact, he had observed as much and had it proven now. 008 would have escaped if she could and, being her quartermaster, he was aware of just how much she was capable of. He hadn't seen them bring her in, hadn't heard a thing, he hadn't helped her at all…and yet here she was after having lost perhaps her closest relative and tracked down his murderer only to be kidnapped, snapping to attention whilst obviously bleeding and in _serious_ trouble. She was stepping up to save him.

Her foot tapped against the harsh cold floor of the ruined damp building four times, a code they had established long ago over the coms. _I've got this. _'Do not tell them anything, Q.'

'I wouldn't dream of it, 008.'

The first fist connected with his face and he was ashamed to admit he was surprised.

'I only wanted one thing you see, my sweet,' Silva looked up at the stars as the second shadow grabbed his wrists and _pulled_ them up. 'To have my mummy dearest for a little chat but _no—' _he darted in front of Q and grabbed his face, forcing him level with his dark eyes. Perhaps this was why they let him keep his glasses, he absently wondered, forcing himself into the abstract away from the very real pain in his body. 'Mr James Bond had to take her from me. He was very bad.' Silva smiled and Q realised he didn't have his mouth piece in. The slurred quality of his words was explained: there was nothing holding us his damaged jaw, the gaping hole in his mouth was glaringly empty. Perhaps there was a matching hole in his back.

_Stabbed in the back_.

'Sadly Mr Bond did not answer my invitation. I thought after all we had been through, the two of us, the two last rats…' Silva's eyes became unfocused and he seemed to have forgotten he was holding Q's face. 'I thought he would keep it secret. A secret agent can't keep secrets though as these agents showed us. Bond, MI6, your new _M_ all of them are appalling at keeping secrets. You couldn't keep _Skyfall_ to yourselves could you? You had to get,' he grinned, the effect with half the mouth being truly disturbing '_others _involved. The least you could do is give me Bond.' He finally let go, stood up and spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. The men moved away from Q and he fought to keep his breathing shallow and keep his mind detached from the pain in his wrist and cheek.

Neither Q nor 008 spoke and Silva's smile died on his lips.

'How did you survive?' Q forced out eventually, the words heavy.

Silva looked a little too gleeful. 'There are many people who want me dead but many people who enjoy me alive as well. There were more than a few organisations ready to lend me some _back _up and out of the country. Then it was easy enough to get myself back into this glorious land, I do have such as way with _words_. It's quite poetic.' He looked pointedly at Q and the penny dropped two days too late.

He refrained from swearing this time only because of years of etiquette. _An organisation, a terror cell outside the country to get him out, a source handed to them —directed to them to lead them further astray—a woman inside the country to get him in, a code hidden in words this time not computers, in _poems…

Q decided that as soon as he survived this he just might have to resign or retake his IQ test as he was clearly lacking in the deductive reasoning department. Silva had begged to be found. And they had missed every opportunity.

Every opportunity until this.

It would be easy enough for them to track the bodies of two dead employees, he supposed, it would focus MI6 on him very quickly and ensure he got to keep playing the sick game with Bond. It was less a random killing by Silva, _more of a personal statement._

'Are you sure you do not wish to sell out the fool Bond, dear agent?' Silva's voice was more of a hiss this time as he addressed 008.

She coolly raised an eyebrow that seemed to accuse them all of all the world's atrocities and smiled as serenely as she could, the blood crusted face really giving it emphasis. Q remembered the file. 008's sister had died and left her son with only the agent's brother-in-law as family. The teenage boy in the soon-to-be forgotten gas explosion as the new news of tomorrow drowned it out, had been her last blood relative. She had little left to lose.

All the same, Q had not been trained as a field agent and even after everything was not ready for Silva to pull out the gun and press it to the agent's forehead. 'Start rolling the cameras,' he instructed his men.

* * *

James Bond, 007, one of the service's few agents licensed to kill sat very still with a perfectly blank face that reminded Mallory why this man had been given the job and why he was a terror to face at poker.

R, Q's second in command and the uncomfortable lead since his boss was taken hostage, stood a little way behind them awkwardly, next to M's Chief of Staff.

'It isn't live then?' M asked finally, directing the question to Tanner.

'No, sir. We received the video a little over seven minutes ago. No one has yet watched it.'

M looked around the room carefully reviewing its occupants. 'It is definitely related to the Rehashed Skyfall case?' Bond flinched but M didn't respond. For lack of a better name, it made an adequate fill in. He didn't want to think about what had happened, and what was happening _now_ any more than the rest of them. But he had a job to do. They all did.

'Silva as good as signed it, and he used Q's code to get in.'

The audible gritting of Bond's teeth was oddly relieving; it was good to know the man was still alive.

M nodded and Tanner played the video. R looked distinctly uncomfortable and paler than before. M felt a small stirring in his stomach. R was only young, older than Q but young by MI6's standards, perhaps it would not do as they had not reviewed the footage. But Q would have watched it if he were there. And if the footage was what M thought it might be then they could be quickly in need of a new stomach strong quartermaster.

Three minutes later, after having watched the seconds before 008's assassination M wished he had sent the poor man out of the room.

The video was made of close ups, zooming like a director to show it clearly, no one else could be seen and there was no audio. It was however, clear to Mallory—and he suspected to Bond also—that it was Silva's hand holding the gun about to fire it when the video blacked out.

It was also clear where exactly they were.

Words appeared like before this time all the harsher for the preceding events:

**YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED INSTEAD. **

**WHILE YOU STILL LIVE I MIGHT AS WELL KILL **

**EVERY PIECE OF HOPE YOU HAVE LEFT **

Bond was out of his seat and at the door before the text had gone.

'Wait, 007.' M turned in his seat. Bond glared at him furiously, clearly ready to ignore any insistence to stay. 'You'll need a gun.'

Bond's face contorted into a broken smile. 'No,' he said simply, 'I won't.'

So the broken man left and the breaking man let him go hoping he could bring back the shattered remains of something resembling all they had lost over the past three days.

'R,' M said, as softly as the head of MI6 could say anything, 'please clear all roads and airways to Skyfall for 007, I believe the journey will be hard enough without any avoidable disturbance. We will help however we can,' he said, turning to Tanner. The man nodded and seemed to catch the words he refused to say _and hope it is enough_.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, that wasn't the quickest update ever... Thank you all, again. Stick with me?**

**(Also, sorry for any errors in earlier chapters or this one)**


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